Evening's Mist and Morning's Dew
by difficile
Summary: May the curtain never close, may this Act never stop. Stage right can always wait, you have a role set by Fate; don’t run away from it. balthier/vaan.


**Author's Notes: **This takes place in Spira - trust me, it wasn't my idea. This was a gift for someone who, in the end, turned out to...well...They could have told me _that _sooner. Also I DON'T OWN FFXII OR FFX. Just to clarify.

**Thunder Plains** equals **Spira** equals **Let's Just Say It's Like One Hour From Ivalice So Just Hush and Go With It.**

x-x-x-x

**evening's mist and morning's dew.**

_xix - tears_

It happens as soon as they shut the door behind them, the anticipated moment and passion once held in reserve now exploding without any sort of warning. Lights? Lights are not needed, lights are redundant and useless. There is no need for light, no need to see to start _this_. They know each other far too well, inside and out.

The two men are exhausted from a hunt through the unknown lands of Spira – they are soaked to the bone from the incessant rain, cold and stinging like cactuar needles, and a good night's rest would sound delightfully pleasant. Alas, there is no room for pleasantry, not now, not when they're finally alone. The two young men know that soon they'll have to return to the other four back in Ivalice, and further hide their relationship, the mutual feelings of passionate sin – and so here, secluded from the eyes and ears of their comrades, they make up for lost time, their voices and whispers drowning in the booming voices of the Gods.

The first impact of lips on lips is slippery and warm for them both, their embrace just as desperate and heated. Vaan's hands find longing purchase in Balthier's russet locks, all natural and loose where they once stood to attention by gel; Balthier's own hands roam Vaan everywhere, every nook and cranny before cupping the boy's childish face. Their noses brush, their breath tickles and mingles, bringing quick gasps and quiet moans with it.

_It is not long until clothes and armor become just as useless and unwanted as the light switch._

The bed beneath them is soft, spacious, though unfamiliar – everything is unfamiliar, from Spira's native tongue, to the writings, to the skies, to the very Thunder Plains they found themselves camping the night on. But the unfamiliarity is welcome, for with it comes privacy, for with it comes a foreign thrill.

Thunder rolls in the thick, humid air and lightning forks in the darkness outside, highlighting the once hidden, jagged veins of a sobbing heaven. Despite the storm raging, spitting hail and rain and lightning from its ashy nimbuses, its attempt to intimidate an impassioned couple settled inside the inn of the Thunder Plains is proven completely fruitless.

There, in the rich darkness of their small room, Vaan arches and gasps, muted by a clap of thunder and illuminated sporadically by a spark of lightning. Balthier can only smile over the Rabanastran – _his_ Rabanastran, all tan and muscle and strangely white teeth – and continues his teasing trail of touches down, up, and all around the bronzed expanse of Vaan's body. Sweat forms at the crease of the blond's brow, his forehead, and along his chest. Balthier notices this in the glare of the moonlight, and the pirate resists the urge to smirk at how receptive Vaan is to each and every touch.

_How endearingly predictable_.

Suddenly the younger male jolts under Balthier's touch, startled, as the whole world seems to shake from a thunderous roar. Vaan remembers all too quickly their location – the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a flat expanse of land so prone to violent storms and sounds he is not used to. Ivalice is quieter, Rabanastre more so, and as the sudden throb of homesickness eats at Vaan, he brings Balthier down on top of him, as if meshing their bodies so close could make his childish fear of thunder disappear.

At this reaction the pirate smiles unabashedly, leaning his head down to brush his lips across Vaan's pert pair. The younger male's lips are soft and full, pouting almost as he offers his tongue a battle with Balthier's. Almost immediately the challenge is accepted, and the sound of hungry lips against lips is drowned out by another growl of thunder; it is not acknowledged by either men.

_There is unity in this desperation we share._

Vaan becomes reduced to nothing before the physical love of Balthier. The Archadian is strong, stunning, ethereal in the flashes of light the sky provides; he dominates without question, without _need_ for question. He steals and moves inside Vaan smoothly, quickly, with such expertise that, at the same time, makes Vaan feel like he can rise to everything.

Beneath Balthier, a part of Balthier, Vaan is the storm; he is the rain, he is the sky, he is the myriad of clouds furling above the ground, dancing in the night. He is the Lightning, and his pirate, the Thunder – an element of his own that Vaan can only hope to harbor for just this night, _just this night_.

As Balthier's lips travel to his again, Vaan can only press back, desperate for warmth and fearfully aware the pirate seeks something far different. But in the heat of that moment, with Balthier finally against him, one with him, premonitions of negativity shy away and the Rabanastran tries to allow himself a night of selfish indulgence and desire – the type of desire once abandoned so long ago, from the loss of love itself, from living in the heavy shadow of a memory.

Their tongues fumble between the small gap of their lips, lashing, sparring in a pointless battle fueled by lust and pent-up passion. It is a language of its own, known only by two young men who forever long to be fluent in such feverous amour.

_A language of love, is it? Never did I think it would come so naturally._

Vaan can feel the grazing of the cool jewels of Balthier's rings fleck across his abdomen and suddenly the younger male is overwhelmed by the unbridled urge to touch every inch of Balthier's body. His own hands dig into the pirate's heated flesh, soft and yet so taut with muscle, so damn perfect in every way that it makes the very core of Vaan's being ache.

His hands travel from Balthier's neck down to his chest, then his waist and around to his back, before a tentative dance of fingers travels up his spine to dig into the back of his shoulders. The applied pressure releases a shuddering gasp from the pirate, a reaction caused by Vaan and _only_ Vaan; at this revelation, his heart swells with pride before sinking from its sudden peak.

Vaan knows, or at least he thinks he knows, that all of _this_ – the touches, the kisses, these movements - could quite possibly be the act of the Leading Man and nothing more. Perhaps it _is_ all a simple act to please, not one meant to last longer than the end of the night, when the curtain closes.

Balthier moans, deep and husky as thunder claps outside, and Vaan feels as though a small part of him could be complete if he could make the pirate want him like this again. And again, and again, until this pattern, this scene, this act is repeated to the end of time.

_May the curtain never close, may this Act never stop. Stage right can always wait, you have a role set by Fate; don't run away from it._

A profound thought overwhelms Balthier far too quickly, far too strongly to even be tried against – to simply keep Vaan against him, always against him, always beneath him. Vaan's body is hot, trembling, smelling of lilacs and cactus blooms and somehow just _Vaan_. The boy's muscle suggests that of a cat – like the panthers roaming the depths of Golmore; exotic, elongated, fit. This body beneath his touch is the body of a thief, the body of one who has felt the brunt of an apathetic Empire, the body of a rebel and survivor. This was not the type of body Balthier thought in the past he'd be so fond to have in his arms, to be inside of, to be one with; surprises such as this in life make it worth living.

Balthier can barely hear, over the sound of rain and wind, Vaan's breath hitch in time to his own quickening movements - movements of his hips against hips, fingers intertwined, lips against lips. Never did such a treasure feel so right, taste so sweet.

_A diamond in the rough, you sought out the life of a bird above the clouds._

Balthier's touch roams Vaan as they kiss and find their rhythm again; his touch learns the boy, learns of the secrets and scars that tell a story even their kisses could not exchange. Vaan's body is toned, bronzed to delectable perfection, exuding a certain warmth akin to the purest desert sands. He's most soft around the neck, most tender around the collarbone, most sensitive right _there_, yes, there where the blond gasps and moans again, softly, like the quick after-flashes of lightning following the main illumination. There is never a flaw encountered by Balthier's eager touch, no blemishes of any sort – just ripping muscle, slick with sweat, soft beneath the pirate's calloused hands.

Balthier parts their lips, tearing shuddering breaths from both their mouths as lightning and thunder recreate their intense duet outside. Vaan shivers beneath the russet-haired man, the ear-splitting crack of thunder startling him again. In the fulminating darkness around them, Balthier searches out Vaan's gaze, dark and clouded with unbridled passion. In the quick sample of Vaan's eyes, wide and curious, Balthier suddenly stumbles across the realization that a pirate's culture does not leave room for the innocence so clearly reflected in that opposite pair of dark irises.

…Yet sky piracy holds its arms out to youth, to dangerous ambitions and a new canvas – a new canvas to _taint_, not to enhance, but to destroy. The harsh irony of it all makes Balthier wonder if Vaan's dreams of becoming one of them – one of_ his kind_ – would be a wise choice.

_I don't want to lose you. Not like that._

Despite his exterior, the blond is fragile; Balthier knows. He's seen Vaan cry, he's seen Vaan smile that all too pure, all too happy smile, he's heard that boyish laugh and he knows – he just _knows_ – that if Vaan becomes a sky pirate, he'd change completely. No longer would his grin retain the impish serendipity, no longer would his stride be at ease and natural, no longer would he be Vaan. Balthier's grip tightens around Vaan's waist, kneading the hot flesh gently, as if trying to ebb away those unpleasant thoughts, those premonitions.

_Remember yourself the way you are, for you're no longer a treasure if you become one of them._

Balthier takes all he fears to lose that night. He leaves nothing; he leaves absolutely nary a thing for another to take, for another to do. Desire chokes him, constricts the pirate above the influence of lightning and rain from this foreign land's Thunder Plains.

_There is not even a tune to whisper in the midst of the night – let us keep this ballad to ourselves._

Darkness and temptation furls about the two and although the only thing Vaan can think is _let me go, let me go, let me come,_ he never wants this feeling of bliss to part from him. Balthier smells of musk, gunpowder, and tastes like rain – Spira's rain, for the land's distinct attributes instantly etched themselves in Vaan's heart when he laid eyes on it earlier that day. He can smell the lust rising from this handling, feel the trembling anticipation of Balthier's own satisfaction, and it makes Vaan's heart drum with pleasure of his own.

Lightning bleeds, flashes through the curtained window again like a warning strobe, patting both their bodies in light and allowing Vaan the privilege of witnessing his own wavering reflection in deep mocha irises. There is something in that quick reflection akin to that of staring out into the ocean's depths; an attempt to decipher one's own face amidst a thick swirl of dark water, of unpredictability and fathomless leagues. He wonders, among all the realms in Balthier's window to the soul, if there was one part reserved for him and just him. Such a thought is reassuring, but reassuring thoughts never mean concrete truth – they are what they are: thoughts, hopes, desperate wishes.

_The story of your eyes is all I need to see, as long as they tell me what I want to know._

"Balthier—I…" and Vaan finds he can say nothing more as elegant hands work at his hardness, coercing him so delightfully to the precipice. He wants to say something more, needs to say those very important, almost harmfully truthful words crawling up his very being, his throat, dancing on the tip of his tongue. _I really—_

"—_love you_." The strangled, misty voice of Balthier is not missed by Vaan's ears, almost swimming in sounds of his own thoughts as the brunet fills Vaan with himself, reaching completion, perfection, the temporary peak of sin. At this Vaan stills only for a moment before engulfing himself with the pirate, wrapping his legs around the other's waist and his arms around his neck. It is a desperate, longing embrace, and Vaan's moist mouth is perched by the shell of Balthier's ear when he whispers the words back, lightning aiding again in the quick illumination of their unity; the shadows soon grow softer where bright intensity once existed.

He is perfect.

But _he_ is impulsive.

He is a liar.

And _he _doesn't know what he truly wants.

_And He wonders, suddenly, why tears line His shoulder, as delicate as evening's mist and sweet as morning's dew._

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